“And that is just,” said Sir William aside to Hartley, “all that Val's recommendation is good for.”
And thus closed as much as we feel necessary to describe of that extraordinary scene—a grand jury room in the year 1804, or thereabouts.
CHAPTER XXIII.—A Rent Day
—Relative Position of Landlord and Tenant—Grades of Tenantry—Phil's Notion of Respect—Paddy Corrigan's Protestant Wig—Phil and Solomon in a Fit of Admiration—The Widow Tyrrell.
One single week in the progress of time, after the exhibition last described, had wonderfully advanced the catastrophe of our simple and uncomplicated narrative. Harman, very much to the mortification of M'Clutchy, was acquitted, the evidence being not only in his favor, but actually of such a character, as to prove clearly that his trial was merely one of those dishonest stretches of political vengeance which characterized the times. On coming out, however, he found the affairs of the firm in a state of bankruptcy and ruin. The insidious paragraphs in the papers, masked with compassion, and “a hope that the affairs of this respectable firm—which was hitherto supposed to be a solvent one—would, still, be wound up in a way, they trusted, somewhat more satisfactory than was given out by their enemies.” Nor was this the worst, so far as Harman himself was concerned. The impression of Mary M'Loughlin's perfidy had been now so thoroughly stamped into his heart, that he neither could, nor would listen to any attempt upon the part of their mutual friends at her vindication. This last stroke of anguish was owing, also, to Phil's diabolical ingenuity. Harman on reflecting day after day, and hour by hour, upon the occurrence, and comparing it with her conduct and confusion on previous occasions, felt, as we before said, strongly inclined to believe her guilty. He determined, however, not to rest here, but to sift the matter to the bottom. He accordingly heard from his cousin, and from several others, while in prison, such details of the particulars, and such an authentic list of the persons who were present, many of whom, owing to the ingenious malignity of Poll Doolin, were friendly and favorable to the family—that he privately sent for them, and on comparing the narratives one with the other, he found the harmony among them so strong, that he gave up all thoughts of her, save such as recurred involuntarily to his mind with indignation and anguish. In addition to his other mortifications, it happened that the second day after his release from imprisonment was what the agents call “Gale day;” that is, the day upon which they get into their chair of state, as it were, and in all the insolence of office receive their rents, and give a general audience to the tenantry. Phil, indeed, even more than the father, looked forward to these days with an exultation of soul and a consciousness of authority, that fully repaid him for all the insults, disasters, and tweakings of the nose, which he was forced to suffer during the whole year besides. In truth, nothing could equal, much less surpass, the Pistolian spirit by which this lion-hearted gentleman was then animated. His frown, swagger, bluster, and authoritative shakings of his head, the annihilating ferocity of his look, and the inflated pomp of manner with which he addressed them, and “damned his honor,” were all inimitable in their way. The father was more cautious and within bounds, simply because he had more sense, and knew the world better; but, at the same time, it was easy to see by his manner, that in spite of all his efforts at impartiality and justice, he possessed the poison as well as the wisdom of the serpent, but not one atom of the harmlessness of the dove. At another table, a little to the right of M'Clutchy, sat M'Slime, ready to take his appropriate part in the proceedings of the day, and prepared, whilst engaged in the task of seeing that everything was done according to law, to throw in “a word in season, touching the interests of the gospel.”
At length eleven o'clock arrived, and found Val, Phil, our old friend Darby, who had not yet entered upon the duties of his office, together with one or two other understrappers, all ready for business. The two principal characters were surrounded by books, rentals, receipts, and every other document necessary and usual upon such occasions. The day was wet and cold, and by no means in the spirit of the season; but we know not why it happens, that there seems in general to be a fatality of disastrous weather peculiar to such days, leading one to imagine that the agent possessed such a necromantic foreknowledge of the weather, as enabled him to superinduce the severity of the elements upon his own cruelty. In a country so poor as Ireland, the scene presented by a rent day is one too impressive and melancholy ever to be forgotten by any heart touched with benevolence. There is little, if any, of that erect freedom of demeanor and natural exhibition of good will, which characterize conscious independence and a sense of protection on the part of the tenant; whilst on that of the agent or landlord there is a contemptuous hardness of manner, a vile indifference, and utter disregard of the feelings of those by whom he is surrounded, that might enable the shallowest observer to say at a glance, there is no sympathy between that man and these people.
But that is not all. Give yourself time to observe them more closely, listen to that agent pouring his insolent invective upon the head of this poor man, whose only crime is his poverty, and whose spirit appears to be broken down with the struggles and sufferings of life; yet, who hears his honesty impugned, his efforts ridiculed, and his character blackened, without manifesting any other than a calm spirit that looks inwards to his own heart for the consciousness of these falsehoods. Look at this, we repeat, and you will surely feel yourself forced to say—not that there is no sympathy between these men, but there sits the oppressor and there stands the oppressed.
But even this is not all. Bestow a still more searching glance upon the scene. Here is more than invective; more than the imputation of dishonesty and fraud; more than the cruel defamation of character in the presence of so many. Mark the words of that agent or landlord again. He is sealing the fate of this struggling man; he tells him he is to have no home—no house to shelter himself, his wife, and their children; that he must be dispossessed, ejected, turned out upon the world, without friends to support or aid him, or the means to sustain their physical existence. Hear all this, and mark the brow of that denounced man; observe how it knits and darkens; how firmly he compressess his lips, and with what a long, determined, gloomy gaze he surveys his denouncer—observe all this, we repeat; and need you feel surprised, at finding yourself compelled to go still farther, and say there sits a doomed man and there most assuredly stands his murderer.
Let it not be supposed that we are capable of justifying murder, or the shedding of human blood; but we are palliating, and ever shall palliate that crime in the humble man, which originates in the oppression of the great man. Is the act which banishes happiness and contentment—introduces poverty, misery, destitution—which scatters out of the heart all the little amenities and sweet endearments of life—which wastes away the strength of the spirit, and paralyzes that of the hand—which dims the eye and gives paleness to the cheek, and by combining all these together makes home—yes, home, the trysting place of all the affections, a thing to be thought of only with dread—an asylum for the miseries of life;—is the act, we say, which inflicts upon a human being, or a human family, this scathing and multitudinous curse—no crime? In the sight of God and in the sight of man is it no crime? Yes! In the sight of God and man it is a deep, an awful, and a most heartless crime! To return, however, to our rent day. The whole morning was unseasonably cold and stormy, and as there was but little shelter about the place, we need scarcely say, that the poor creatures who were congregated before the door were compelled to bear the full force of its inclemency.